


Human Error

by Ebyru



Category: The Man From U.N.C.L.E. (2015)
Genre: Accidental Voyeurism, Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Ancient Technology, F/M, Feelings Realization, Jealous Illya, M/M, Masturbation, Mental Health Issues, Pining, Resolved Sexual Tension, Spies & Secret Agents, only because it's an audio
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-01-05
Updated: 2017-01-05
Packaged: 2018-09-15 02:19:07
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,182
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/9214577
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Ebyru/pseuds/Ebyru
Summary: Illya accidentally records the Napoleon’s ‘encounter’ with Vinciguerra (and can’t help but listen to it).





	

**Author's Note:**

> I love these two jerks so much  
> and so let's pretend that it wasn't just a bug, but something that could accidentally record if someone was, say, flustered the way Illya was when he ran to listen and make sure Victoria wasn't killing Napoleon. lol
> 
> Also, un-beta'd because I'm lazy. But if anyone would like to volunteer for future stories, let me know! :)

It’s a week after they’ve finished the mission in Italy, and Illya is getting antsy and – dare he say – bored. In the KGB, vacations were scarce, if there were any. But now that he works for UNCLE, they are given a week between missions to ensure they can digest what happened earlier and be ready to face new challenges in a new area.

For Illya, this means feeling useless. It also means his skin feels too tight, his clothes too stifling, his room to small, but his bed too wide. Everything about their time off bothers him, and he hates that Gaby and Napoleon often leave him to his own whims because they’re too busy shopping together with the paycheck from the last mission.

All he has to comfort him is his chess set, and even that seems foreign to him now that Napoleon bought him a new silver one. It is beautiful, elegant like the man who offered it, but it does not suit a pragmatic and efficient Russian man. Most in the KGB would find it excessive in design; but most of them also might have killed Napoleon on the first day of their mission, so.

It’s after the fourth day of their seven-day vacation that he simply cannot deal with the so-called freedom anymore, and snaps. He rips into his hotel room, tossing furniture about, throwing his clothing from his bag and drawers, kicking at the chairs tucked underneath the wood table, and nearly flips the nightstand where Napoleon’s present lies in wait. Nearly.

Instead, he touches the metal pieces and, somehow, they offer him temporary calm. He sits on his bed, leaning over to grab one of them and roll it around his large fingers, pressing the cool metal into his palms and fingertips. Though the set is excessive, it remains an elegant present – a thoughtful one. Illya has yet to return the kind gesture, and now he must repay it doubly so with Napoleon’s offer of his father’s watch as well.

Illya lies back against the bed, the springs bouncing more than any KGB mattress would, and he hears the click of something underneath his pillow. Admittedly, he doesn’t normally sleep on the right side of the bed, or anything past the centre because it would mean needing more space than he logically requires. And because the right side is basically untouched, he had forgotten he slid the recording device from the last mission there so Napoleon wouldn’t accuse him of being paranoid (which he is).

He can’t help but snort at the machine, recalling the moment it came most in handy: Vinciguerra’s impromptu visit to Napoleon’s room. Fortunately for them, Napoleon was quick enough with his feet and mind to convince her of his faked-innocence. Unfortunately, Illya had listened for a moment too long and heard the beginnings of her pleasure over the microphone; Gaby’s involvement had been a mistake, one that she continues to tease Illya about whenever she finds the opportune moment.

Illya turns on the device for fun, welcoming the distraction. And what he hears – both Vinciguerra and Napoleon’s moans – almost makes him swallow his tongue with surprise. He stops it immediately, confused as to why it is there at all if it happened weeks ago –

He moves the brown machine aside, glaring at it. Rather than simply bugging Napoleon’s room, and using the microphone to ensure his safety in that moment of confrontation with Vinciguerra, Illya had recorded it. All of it. Long after he had stopped listening to it. If the overconfident man himself knew of this, he would either take it as a compliment to his sexual prowess, or be disgusted by his partner for having done such a breach of privacy. Both were options Illya did not find palatable.

Illya hides the evidence back under his pillow, and leaves his hotel room to avoid incriminating himself further.

\---

Worse than the discomfort of a forced vacation – which Illya did not think anything could surpass – is how his mind refuses to forget about the recording between Napoleon and Vinciguerra.

Illya is a man of morals, honour; he doesn’t take kindly to people who hurt for the simple pleasure of it, all of which applied to Vinciguerra. Napoleon, on the other hand, crosses some boundaries, but has a code of his own that Illya respects. That code involves sleeping with women who are unsavory characters, and also just any woman who crosses his path when he happens to be bored. This, Illya knows because of how vocal he makes said women when he gets his hands on them – even without a recording.

Normally, the tape would have been immediately destroyed. But because Illya is both out of his usual mindset and curious beyond belief about what happened (following his near-drowning and their mad rush to the hotel), Illya not only keeps it, he intends to listen to it.

\---

Sometime past midnight, Illya double locks his room door and pushes a chair underneath the handle for extra safety. He hasn’t even begun the recording yet and he’s already sweating. To remedy that, he removes both his cap and his outer shirt, leaving him in slacks and a grey undershirt. He sits on the left side of his bed, and plays the recording on the right. He does not look over at the device.

_Hello, Victoria._

A pause.

_Grape?_

 

Within moments, Vinciguerra is moaning loudly, and Illya finds he despises the sound of her pleasure even with the satisfaction of having helped Napoleon kill her. His knuckles tighten, the skin white with annoyance, so he leans over, ready to end this perverse game by erasing the tape once and for all when he hears it. Napoleon, moaning out, albeit softer than Vinciguerra. He can’t help but hold the device up to his ear, desperate to hear him more clearly, to know just how much he was enjoying taking from her as she was from him – both of them aware they would have to end the other.

Illya presses himself back against his pillow, his body tight with anticipation of more of Napoleon’s vocal responses. She moans again, loud and too pleased for Illya’s taste, but in the background, softly and more subdued is Napoleon again. His gentle gasps, his soft heaves of breath; they’re almost more explicit in their subtlety, far more arousing than the bold and over-the-top sounds coming from Vinciguerra.

Without a second thought, Illya opens his slacks, feeling the rush of air even through his boxer briefs as his arousal slowly builds. He finds his chest tightening every time Napoleon makes a sound, no matter how small or quiet. Somehow, he completely shuts Vinciguerra out, and focuses solely on Napoleon and his breaths as they begin to stutter from the building of pleasure, his effort to keep an enemy ‘sedated’ in a sense.

For whatever reason, Illya finds Napoleon all the more appealing with the realization of how he had to use his body and sexuality to distract her from killing them both (and perhaps even hotel staff who hadn’t even been involved).  In spite of his questionable methods, Napoleon’s aim is always to ensure the safety of those he works with and the innocents around them. And he is successful at that most of the time.

Illya strains against his briefs with each moment he considers Napoleon, and hears his breath speed up. With one hand, he grips himself through the cotton, refusing to look down, refusing to see how aroused he is by a man who could not be more different than himself. When a particularly loud moan comes through more clearly than all the others, Illya can’t help but echo it while squeezing the base of his fully hardened length.

He closes his eyes and, suddenly, he is there in the hotel room with Napoleon, pressing him into his decadent bed sheets, watching him strain against the headboard for more purchases, their hips rocking in tandem. Napoleon gasps, his breathing frantic now, his body taut and stiff, sweat glistening in the hollow of his throat as he throws his head back. Illya doesn’t know when he slipped his fingers through the opening of his boxers, but his cock is free, the cool air doing nothing to soothe the heat of it, pre-come dripping freely over his fingers and down the shaft as he strokes at a blinding pace.

Napoleon groans out something that Illya can’t quite make out, even with the recording pressed to his ear, and Vinciguerra’s scream is so loud he’s certain she didn’t notice either. Illya grips himself with the last of his restraint, and rewinds to hear what he said. When he presses play, the volume almost at max, the recording so close he may go deaf, his cock throbbing in his hand, he hears: _Illya._ It is as clear as day, right against his ear, and without stroking or squeezing his cock, he comes harder than he ever has. His body pulled taut like strings of a violin, he shoots upwards, come painting his chest in white stripes, the rest dripping down across his navel and over his knuckles.

Now, he stops the recording. And in the silence of his room, Illya pants for long minutes, having difficulty coming down from both the orgasm and the discovery of how much he desires Napoleon. His undershirt is a mess of sticky come, and his fingers are no better, but he can’t be bothered with any of that now that he’s aware of his feelings for a certain aggravating man. The first (and only) man Illya has ever been attracted to.

Illya slowly rolls out of bed, carefully peeling off his clothing, dropping it all to the ground – save for his soiled shirt. He makes his way to the bathroom, rinsing both his hands and his undershirt, in hopes that the staff will be unaware of what kind of _activities_ he gets up to in his spare time.

With the water running loudly, Illya can’t help but recall the sound of Napoleon when he had climaxed, and the single word he had uttered, knowing Vinciguerra was too wrapped up in her own pleasure to notice it. not only did he risk blowing his cover with Illya’s name, but what if Illya had kept a bug in his room that Napoleon wasn’t aware of? (Which he did.)

Just the thought of that, makes his length twitch with renewed interest, and he wonders if it would be too sinful to listen again for another round. He considers this for a moment, hanging his undershirt over the shower pole, when he hears his front door open and close.

Illya has no clothes on, no gun nearby, and is still hazy from the recent orgasm. This is the absolute worst time for someone to make an attempt on his life. Carefully, he makes himself as small as he can, and presses himself down to the floor, sneaking out of the bathroom. Normally, people expect others to exit the bathroom at full height so it would be easy to shoot him in the chest, but at ground level they’ll miss.

Illya rolls out of the bathroom in one fluid move, uncomfortably feeling his length press into cold tiles, and when he tackles the intruder, he’s surprised to see soft blue eyes peering at him.

“I must say, I didn’t expect you to be so agile in the nude,” Napoleon says with a chuckle. “That is a feat even for me.”

Illya pushes him away, covering his more private areas with his large hands, thankful for their size just this once. “What you want? Get out.”

Napoleon sighs. “To think I was coming to offer myself to you. Well, so be it,” he says, turning to leave.

His hand is on the doorknob when Illya grabs his shoulder. “What do you mean?”

Over his shoulder, Napoleon says, “I knew you recorded me, _Illya_. I had bugged you as well.”

Illya swallows, letting Napoleon’s shoulder go. He moves his hand back to his length, covering it as best he can now that it’s swelling again. “And?”

Napoleon turns with a flourish, dragging a hand through his slicked hair. “And I am here to service you, however you wish, my dear _Illya_.” He steps closer, sliding a hand slowly down illya’s cheek, his neck, his shoulder, his eyes raking down the rest of the way. “If you want me to, of course.” He licks his lips.

Illya growls, pining Napoleon to the door and sucking a bruising kiss from his mouth. “Don’t sleep with others, ok? Mine.” He presses his hips into Napoleon hard, grinding into the soft fabric of his three-piece suit. “Mine,” he repeats.

Napoleon chuckles, nodding. “Yours, sure. Now can I remove my suit before you wrinkle it?”

Illya drags his eyes down Napoleon’s body the same way Napoleon had done to him earlier. “No,” he says, and claims his mouth, ripping his trousers open to get at Napoleon’s not insubstantial length.

“I’m fine with that too,” Napoleon chokes out.

**Author's Note:**

> Comments always appreciated if you have the time :)


End file.
